A Gentleman Vagabond and Some Others eBook

Now, before the grip of the great city has been fastened
upon it; before the axe of the “dago”
clears out the wilderness of underbrush; before the
landscape gardener, the sanitary engineer, and the
contractor pounce upon it and strangle it; before
the crimes of the cast-iron fountain, the varnished
grapevine arbor, with seats to match, the bronze statues
presented by admiring groups of citizens, the rambles,
malls, and cement-lined caverns, are consummated;
before the gravel walk confines your steps, and the
granite curbing imprisons the flowers, as if they,
too, would escape.

Now, when the tree lies as it falls; when the violets
bloom and are there for the picking; when the dogwood
sprinkles the bare branches with white stars, and
the scent of the laurel fills the air.

Touch the button some day soon for an hour along the
Bronx.

ANOTHER DOG

Do not tell me dogs cannot talk. I know better.
I saw it all myself. It was at Sterzing, that
most picturesque of all the Tyrolean villages on the
Italian slope of the Brenner, with its long, single
street, zigzagged like a straggling path in the snow,—­perhaps
it was laid out in that way,—­and its little
open square, with shrine and rude stone fountain, surrounded
by women in short skirts and hobnailed shoes, dipping
their buckets. On both sides of this street ran
queer arcades sheltering shops, their doorways piled
with cheap stuffs, fruit, farm implements, and the
like, and at the far end, it was almost the last house
in the town, stood the old inn, where you breakfast.
Such an old, old inn! with swinging sign framed by
fantastic iron work, and decorated with overflows of
foaming ale in green mugs, crossed clay pipes, and
little round dabs of yellow-brown cakes. There
was a great archway, too, wide and high, with enormous,
barn-like doors fronting on this straggling, zigzag,
sabot-trodden street. Under this a cobble-stone
pavement led to the door of the coffee-room and out
to the stable beyond. These barn-like doors keep
out the driving snows and the whirls of sleet and
rain, and are slammed to behind horse, sleigh, and
all, if not in the face, certainly in the very teeth
of the winter gale, while the traveler disentangles
his half-frozen legs at his leisure, almost within
sight of the blazing fire of the coffee-room within.

Under this great archway, then, against one of these
doors, his big paws just inside the shadow line,—­for
it was not winter, but a brilliant summer morning,
the grass all dusted with powdered diamonds, the sky
a turquoise, the air a joy,—­under this
archway, I say, sat a big St. Bernard dog, squat on
his haunches, his head well up, like a grenadier on
guard. His eyes commanded the approaches down
the road, up the road, and across the street; taking
in the passing peddler with the tinware, and the girl
with a basket strapped to her back, her fingers knitting
for dear life, not to mention so unimportant an object
as myself swinging down the road, my iron-shod alpenstock
hammering the cobbles.